Over the weekend, I put this up as a Facebook note, with the hyperbolic title "Welcome to Bleak House 3.0":

First, the obvious: I am not planning to take my own life. Not now, not in the foreseeable future.

Slightly less obvious: I am not expending any time wishing or hoping or praying for death. Whatever lies beyond this life, I am not prepared for it, and I'm hardly looking forward to it.

That said, I find myself in agreement with Mr. Mellencamp: "Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone." Where once there was enthusiasm, now there is fear. Whatever this thing they call "life" is, I can't help but think that it's gone on far too long.

Whatever self-image I may have, it's based on perceived adulthood, and the ability to take care of myself. I no longer have that ability, except in the most limited of ways. (As I was writing this, I went to the medicine cabinet and discovered that I'd forgotten to fill one of my daily prescriptions. One more fail.) I did not enjoy being two years old when I was two; I certainly don't enjoy it at sixty-two.

Yes, it's theoretically possible that I'll return to fully-functioning status eventually. But it's too late for that concept to be persuasive: if it can be taken away once, it can be taken away again.

A corner has clearly been turned. I was never exactly hell on wheels, but I'm at the point now where everything I do will be second-guessed. Possibly third-guessed. And if there's light at the end of the tunnel, I assume it's an oncoming train: presuming that I am released from my seeming captivity in August, as I anticipate, I will be so utterly buried in work that I won't have time to breathe. Whether this constitutes going from the frying pan into the fire is left as an exercise for the student.

Right on time, my insomnia has returned with a vengeance. If I hit the sack at eleven, I might be asleep by two-thirty, but I wouldn't count on it. All by itself, that's more than enough to leave me despondent.

I don't know whether this is the beginning of Seemingly Permanent Sadness. I would not, however, be surprised. I know better than to bawl that nobody loves me; however, those who love me cannot save me. It's something I must do alone. And I have absolutely no aptitude for that sort of thing.

The Vent

#975
  1 August 2016

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